Commas
by iluvmylowandbaseball
Summary: Bitter taste of losing everything I held so dear. Panama. Michael and Sara's dysfunctional relationship.


**Title:** Commas

**Fandom:** Prison Break

**Character(s)/Paring(s):** Michael/Sara

**Author:** Maria (lincmikejess/ iluvmylowandbaseball/ mmwdc1027)

**Rating: **PG

**Warning:** Original characters, mild sexual situations, mild language

**Genre(s)/Category(ies): **Drama, Het

**Disclaimer:** If I don't own, you can't sue.

**Summary:** "Bitter taste of losing everything I held so dear." Panama.

**(A/N):** This is for the Writer's Choice Challenge. The prompt was slave. Inspired by Sarah McLachlan's _Fallen. _Do not be misled by the 'I' in the summary. This is third person. I didn't want to make the quote my own by changing 'I' to 'him'. The quote belongs to Sarah McLachlan.

--

He never admits things are different. He likes to stick to the past, the way things once were. The world may fall around him and he'd start over.

It's the one thing she hates about him. That and how he doesn't let things be.

He is a captive to the breadth of his imagined beginnings.

--

Sara convinces herself he does it to keep his sanity; she knows the prison experience was rough for him.

Enduring so much in so little time is unfortunate.

He deleted his indictment, his escape, and his misadventures from his mind once they all arrived in Panama.

He ran everything before prison and after evading the FBI into a sequential film.

He has no middle.

It is probably his way of making the beginning the start for everything. Including their relationship.

It bothers her, to no extent, when he pretends they met at some bar in Chicago and hit it off so well.

While chemistry sparked between them like Benjamin Franklin's kite, she likes to think she played hard-to-get.

Then again, nothing is unconquerable for Michael Scofield.

Except for Michael Scofield. He is his own No Man's Land.

--

Sara admires watching him from afar, his back flexing under his white undershirt as his arms tighten around his knees. She dares not intrude on what seems to be his mental struggle for sanity and sleep.

The tide is washing up the shore, inching nearer to him, but he doesn't seem to notice as he stares into the infiniteness of the shadows.

She softly closes the back porch's door and slips into the flip flops that lay next to the welcome mat. Swiftly but mutedly, she walks across the concrete and steps into the warm sand.

Her hair sticks to her face with sweat and her thighs rub against each other as she briskly walks up to him.

Mimicking his position, she blatantly whispers, "Can't sleep?"

"Yep," he sighs, raising a hand to his face and rubbing a finger across his eye.

"What're you thinking about?"

He turns to her and shrugs. "Commas."

"What?"

"Commas. Why do people always insist on using commas? Just drop a comma here and there's a pause. Drop another comma there and there's another pause. Not everything can be split like that, you know?"

She smiles and nods. "Kinda reminds me of a little something a certain someone did."

"Really? Who?" He's looking across the waters again, his voice tedious and his eyes far-flung.

Instead of replying, Sara looks down and wipes her clammy hands across her clammy legs.

"No one you would know."

--

Michael's pushing her up the wall, lips clamped over hers. His lips are almost devouring her, absorbing all her confusion into his own mouth, and she can't help but think how wrong this feels.

Too many lies surround their relationship. Too many 'push to the back of her mind and forget about it' circumstances.

Too many inhalations of water he hasn't been there for.

And she knows she can't live this way forever.

"Michael," she breaths into his mouth, attempts to pull back. He doesn't seem to hear her and he slides his tongue into her mouth. "Michael."

He stops and she searches for his eyes. When he finally looks at her, she notes the anguish in them and he leans his forehead against hers.

Exhaling shakily, he whispers, "I'm sorry."

"We can't do this. I can't just let you pretend like you care about me." She places her hands on his chest, pushing him away from her.

"Sara," he tries, stepping towards her, but she anticipates his actions and steps back.

"Don't," Sara firmly states, crossing her arms over her chest and walking down the hall to her room.

--

The streets are warm and lively. The atmosphere is inviting and the Spanish music spewing out of the bars compels her.

No reason, however, motivates her to celebrate a doomed relationship.

--

The man's name is Enrique. He's far from Panamanian; he's Cuban-American, with small Irish descent.

She met him at the beach last night, while taking a break from the musical sensations of the local club.

He'd charmed her with his witty banter. She succumbed easily to his good looks and accepted the date he offered her for the next night.

Sara was composing herself now. She pulls some of her auburn locks into a light green barrette after twisting her hair with her new-fangled curling iron. A white summer dress, encircled by a light green lace tied into a bow, hugs her body loosely and she sprays her neck with an inexpensive perfume that smells of cinnamon apples.

"What are you doing?" Michael asks softly, hands braced on the doorway, an inquisitive look adorning his otherwise somber face.

She turns her head, hair swirling around her neck, and says, "Just getting ready to go out." He nods and pastes a smile on his face.

"Good for you."

"Don't pretend, Michael. I'm sick of it." She turns to the mirror once more, fluffing her hair with her hands, before walking over to the table fan and powering it.

"Okay," he relents too quickly for her to believe him. She knows he's not the same Michael she met eight months ago.

She feels like she's talking to him through a window pane.

--

Enrique takes her hand into his olive-colored one as he pulls her, lightly, behind him, promising it will be a surprise. The lightness in his voice startles her, it being something she hasn't accustomed herself to.

She's tempted to be hackneyed and ask where he could possibly take her, knowing she'll enjoy it, if this is only their first date. However, she refrains and lets his contagious joy course through her veins.

They're running, her flats thumping against the cobblestone street, as Enrique pulls her towards the small marina.

"We're not stealing a boat, right?" Sara asks lightheartedly, slowing down to catch her breath.

"Of course not! Let's go!" he urges, tugging on her hand.

"What's the rush?"

"It'll leave if we don't hurry up!"

--

"You seem happy," he notes from across the candlelit table. She turns her head to him and nods enthusiastically.

"I am. It's been so long since anyone's done something like this for me. Not that someone has done this exact thing for me before, because they haven't. I mean—"

"—I understand," he interrupts, inserting a piece of medium rare steak into his mouth.

"Yeah. I didn't want to make a fool of myself. Again." Embarrassed, she ducks her head, the sounds of the waves hitting against the small yacht.

"You're not," he soothes, his hand reaching over the table and finding hers. Slowly, she lifts her head and eyes him as his thumb rubs her knuckles. "It's fine."

"Is it?" Enrique nods and her stomach becomes unsettled.

--

"Have a good date?" Michael asks blandly when she comes to the kitchen the next morning.

Yawning, she nods and searches the room for his brother and nephew. "Where are Lincoln and LJ?"

He hands her a mug of coffee and shrugs. "I think they went to the market. We needed substantial food."

Gulping the warm, brown liquid, she asks, "Is it safe?"

"I think so. Linc knows better than to ditch the food and LJ for a quickie with his future girlfriend." Michael chuckles, pulling the stool under the counter out and sitting. Sara follows.

"I haven't heard you laugh in a long time," she states gloomily, sweat forming on her brow.

"I—"

"—It's nice." She hasn't changed the tone in her voice and she can note his discomfort. She's almost sure she would find him squirming if she looked up from her coffee mug.

The stool scrapes against the ceramic tile of the kitchen and his feet pad quickly across the room. Front door shutting after him, Sara sighs and pushes her hair out of her face.

He just can't stand change. And if something changes, he starts over, rectifying it and going back to the way things were (in his mind).

--

_The cotton fields were overflowing. It was time for every hostage to get off their asses and pick their crops._

_It's a mind-numbing task of life and death, for no one ever knows when a heatstroke might reel him into its clutches. _

_That being said, a fellow worker collapses two rows away from him. Everyone rushes over, requesting the attention from the nearby overseer._

_However, he remains unfazed, working right along, separating the tiny seeds from the fluff._

--

**End note:** Well, that was adventurous. And confusing, to me, anyway. Well, not that you've read, tell me what you think.


End file.
